“Willow’s just walked by with a mouse” said Grant as I was finishing my tea.
Always a good start to the day.
With nothing of note to photograph, I’ve gone back a few days.
It’s Super Bowl Sunday here which is a really big deal if you are a follower of American football.
Personally, I cannot get far enough away from it.
Having been subjected to this spectacle in my teens, I can safely say I would rather watch paint dry.
Like everything these days, it’s BIG BUSINESS.
Which is another reason I hate it.
It may seem UN-American, but then I am.
My feeling is, that if you depart your home country to take up residence elsewhere, you should adapt yourself to fit in.
Not by changing your religion or your beliefs of course, but certainly you should learn the language and not make a nuisance of yourself.
In my case, leaving my country and finishing up in the States was not really my choice. But I spoke the language, albeit that some people took issue with my pronunciation, and I had no religion to give up or convert to, so that was no problem.
After these many, many long years you might think, therefore, that I would fit in.
It’s not the football thing. No doubt there are plenty of Americans that dislike it as much as I do.
It’s more that when I find myself criticizing American political policy or behaviour, I hear voices saying to me “if you don’t like it, leave!’
If I could, I would. But where would I go?
Is there anywhere that’s not a mess?
In as much as I still have mental issues, I think one of them is the sense of not belonging. It was what troubled me when I knew I would have to retire early.
If I was not a BA employee, I would be nobody.
Retired. Ex-BA. Medicare patient. A number. Statistic.
This came to the surface after my recent appointment with my new psychiatrist, the man in grey.
Surely one is not supposed to leave an appointment of that sort feeling worse about oneself?
Sitting at my desk yesterday, I became aware of a sensation in my chest, or stomach. It was not physical I knew, so I thought about it. It was familiar.
Then I remembered when I had previously experienced this same sickening feeling.
It was when I was ostracized by the other students at my first boarding school. They believed something they had been told about me. It was childish and insignificant. After all I was only 12.
But I had no idea what I was supposed to have done or said and couldn’t find out, because no-one would speak to me. Not just for a day, but for the duration of that term or semester.
And that is how my new psychiatrist made me feel.
Tomorrow I have to see my primary care doctor, only because it’s required in order to get prescriptions renewed. I feel sick at the thought and I know this can’t be right. So my intention is to say the least amount possible.
Which I am sure will suit him just fine.